syntax and spinning wax

a handsome man once wrote

"dry bones harm no-one"

but this man is now dead.

pale light sharpens the pencil

in my head

and my hands blend graphite with skin.

i can't begin to answer the question

of life

or even if i should lace my shoes

this way or that.

i can't finish asking the question

that i will always ask, in one way or another.

potential remains a four-letter word, and i smile through the thick soupy haze of my time.

and i desperately, completely love the potential of now as i try on my skin once more.